Never Mine to Lose
by linzaline
Summary: Harry has realized he is in love with Hermione, yet recognizes the impossibility of such a relationship given their circumstances. An unrequited love fic, rated M for possible later chapters.


Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter, nor Hermione, nor _Casa Rossa_, nor the _Hollow Men_. I own only my own thoughts, and sometimes not even those.

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_This is not a story about what we know, nor about what we have._

_This is a story about what gets lost along the way. _

_-Francesca Marciano, "Casa Rossa"_

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I suppose it all began in the woods.

Hard as it is to pinpoint the moment your life falls apart—a disintegration that seems to take ages and seconds, a slow-motion car crash resulting in instantaneous death—I think I've done it.

Ironic, really. The woods have long been the favorite setting for magical myth and lore. Magic being my unintended strong point and all, it seems incongruous that I should lose my entirety in the woods for reasons far outside the realm of magic.

As she lay on her cot sobbing and calling his name into her pillow, I felt a certain rage well up into my throat. Not unexpected, considering I was being abandoned yet again by one whom I considered my family.

One could hardly blame me.

Ron, the only one I ever felt I could truly count on. The one who knew me, fought for me, was (supposedly) willing to die for me. One third of my Three Musketeers. Even before I knew about my destiny, my slow and inevitable descent into hell to meet the devil, Ron was there. He was always there. And now, when I was so close to the edge, where was he?

Eating fantastically rich, warm, filling meals, taking hot baths. Being lavished with hugs and kisses from his mother, thank you very much, while the remaining Musketeers steadily froze and starved to death with no way out, no great escape plan. Nothing.

Yet gazing at Hermione, curled into herself like that, my feelings of anger and my feelings of surprise at his disloyalty seemed somehow disconnected. Lying on my own feeble bed, constructing vivid fantasies of the ways in which I would hurt Ron when next we met, it was entirely on her behalf. Pain, excruciating pain would be his for what he had done to her. She looked so broken, and that was not the Hermione I knew. Not _my_ Hermione.

The horcrux lay heavy about my neck as my inner demons grew louder in their approval. Yes, they cackled and screamed, yes, he deserves unthinkable tortures. Yes, yours to deliver. Your right. Make him bleed. Make him cry as she cries. Yes, yes!

And then a sudden thought quieted their cacophony instantly. A question crystallized in the silence.

Why did I care?

It was not as if I hadn't other more pressing matters to be concerned with than whether Hermione's crush went unrequited. That Ron was choosing comfort over demise. Who wouldn't?

A creeping, clutching thing was taking hold of my stomach, of my heart. A cold thing. A desperate thing. I did not want to acknowledge it.

I began to rationalize.

She's my best friend. ('So was he', the thing insisted, 'yet he left you.'). She had stayed. I owed her my loyalty, owed her . . . (The thing paused, breath baited). Well, at the very least to inflict some semblance of pain on Ron. (The thing snorted). I was hurt too. (It rolled its non-eyes). I was. It was for me too. It was. It _was_.

It had to be.

I glanced over at Hermione's prone frame, and my heart broke. Her hair, unruly and wild like her heart, spread out in a chestnut halo about her head. Her cheeks were flushed and sweaty from the exhausted sleep she had finally (mercifully) collapsed into. Her body was skinny, too skinny, from days upon days without eating more than a meager sustenance. Dirty, worn and fierce even in her unconsciousness, she was lovely.

She was Ron's. She had always been Ron's.

I cannot adequately describe how it feels to realize you are in love with a woman so inescapably wrong for you that not one tiny ounce of hope can survive the sucking void your heart becomes. It consumes all; pulling at your insides until only your shell remains. A hollow man. A stuffed man. A man filled with straw. Quiet and meaningless.

Another slowly instantaneous moment. It hurts to look at her. I look away.

When had I fallen? Just now? Had it always been there, lurking in the familial intimacy?

My mind wandered around this unknown territory, feebly grasping at passing thoughts that struggled to materialize.

Pain, all was pain. I knew I was going to cause it, if I should ever reveal my epiphany.

To Hermione, madly in love with Ron, who would be forced to reject me and who would never forgive herself for it, knowing what it would was to me.

To Ron, who, as much as I hated him now, was more than a friend to me. More like a brother. No petty argument could change that. As reluctant as I was to admit it to myself, my rage had the green tinge of jealousy, and because of that I knew it would pass. Tainted hate is a useless emotion. It lacks the righteousness necessary to assure oneself that it's okay to feel the way you do without leaving a bad taste in your mouth.

Thinking about Ron, who harbored his own intense feelings for Hermione, only increased my guilt, and reminded me of Ginny.

Ginny!

Oh, God, what was I going to do about Ginny? The weight of the decision was too much for me, it crushed the air from my lungs. Crueler to reveal or to pretend? She deserved better than a lie, yet to break her heart over something so out of her control and which was so completely unable to ever see itself through to fruition was a more pitiless act than I was capable of.

Hermione cooed in her sleep, breaking my concentration. She murmured his name. If only it were "Harry". But of course, it wasn't. Wouldn't be. Can't be.

She blinked languid, sleepy blinks and sighed deeply. I watched as she rose slowly, stumbling over to where I was.

"Can I sleep with you?" She mumbled. "I'm so cold. You look very warm in there."

I moved over in my bed and held the blankets up to allow her access. As she crawled in, our bodies melded comfortably, spoons in the kitchen, books on the shelf.

She fell back asleep instantly. I lay awake, my face pressed against her beautiful neck, breathing in her smell, pretending, pretending . . .

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This is my first story! Please review! I have ideas for more chapters, but I'd like to see what people have to say, if you do indeed have things to say. Thanks, lovelies, and keep reading!


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